


we both know that the nights were mainly made for saying things that you cannot say tomorrow day

by starraya



Category: Holby City
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Gangsters - AU, TW: Violence, inspired by Peaky Blinders, lots and lots of swearing, tw: injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 02:03:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11174709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starraya/pseuds/starraya
Summary: 1921. The city is a cesspit of crime, crawling with drunkards and prostitutes. The soot-riddled streets are home to chaos, and the chaos is overseen by one woman. Serena Campbell is cunning, ruthless and extremely, disconcertingly, charming. She is also the matriarch of the most notorious gangster family in the country. Men fall like flies around her. The last officer the police sent in to take her down is now her lover. The authorities decide enough is enough. They will send in their best undercover agent. One hell bent on vengeance. One who will not be blind-sighted by Serena's charm.Her name is Berenice Wolfe.





	we both know that the nights were mainly made for saying things that you cannot say tomorrow day

The name of the pub is _The Scarlet Drop_. It sounds beautiful. Like a ruby necklace hanging delicately between white collarbones. It sounds intoxicating. Deep, dark red wine dripping from a bottle into a glass. It sounds deadly. The first bead of blood before the slit of a throat.

This city is the home of gangsters. It will become hers, too, if all goes well. Encircled by grey clouds, the dust on the cobbled streets, the thick smog choking the air, Bernie walks towards the pub. Her long pale pink coat flaps in the wind.

She pushes open the doors of the pub. Enters without admission. The bartender, scrubbing ale stains from a table, tells her that they are closed.

Bernie asks for work. He asks her if she’s mad.

-

Later, standing on a street corner, she fumbles for the packet of cigarettes in her pocket and a matchbox. She holds the cigarette between lips. Goes to strike a match. Freezes when she hears a voice. Clipped and irritated. Bernie’s head looks up. She sees a gleaming burgundy motor. Sees the back of a woman standing next to it. Sees the lad, thirteen?  fourteen? she is shouting at. She wants the motor fixed. Now. Not tomorrow. She expects it fixed by the end of the day. The lad scampers away.

Bernie, without thinking, puts the match back in its box. Strides forward.

“Engine been whining or growing?”

The woman’s head snaps around. Bernie finds herself looking into the eyes of the woman who owns _The Scarlet Drop._ Who all but owns the whole city. Bernie looks into the eyes of the woman Bernie is here to bring down. Serena Campbell.

-

The bartender told Bernie that they weren’t looking for a barmaid. Bernie told him she saw the position advertised in the paper.

“You’re too . . .”

Bernie thought he was searching for word other than old.

“Nice.”

Bernie smiled sweetly, as if agreement, before saying that she knew that they were yet to fill the job vacancy. One open for weeks.

The bartender let her state her case. Skimmed the references Bernie thrust in his hand. He asked if she could sing. She asked if that’s what men in here like. The bartender didn’t give her an answer. Just said how, since the war, they had been no singing. Bernie told him how she could tell stories. The men didn’t want stories, the bartender explained. They had enough of them from the war. And they did their damned best not to think about them. The men here ain’t got no time for stories.

Trust me, Bernie promised, they’ve got time for these ones.

-

“Define intermittent.”

The first words Serena Campbell greets her with. An order. Direct and curt. Sharpened by the remnants of ire still in her voice. Bernie stands over a steaming car. Gives unsought advice.

“Funny,” Serena says, “You don’t look like a mechanic.”

“I’m not.”

“Then who you are? You clearly don’t know who I am.” Serena doesn’t remember asking for the stranger’s opinion, and it is only a stranger who would have given it. Anyone who has heard of her name would have had the common sense not to utter a word without Serena's permission.

“Berenice Wolfe.”

“What business do you have here?” Serena says, sensing instantly that Bernie’s not from here. Her accent’s too refined. Her clothes too nice.

“Just looking for work,” Bernie lies.

She is not looking for work. She already has it. She is employed by the police. By the enemies of the woman stood opposite of her. And she is firmly on their side.

-

The second-time Bernie encounters Serena Campbell she has blood spotting the collar of her blouse. Bernie is serving beyond the bar. To the one side there is a hatch door. It connects to a private room, cut off from the clamour of the evening crowds. That room is where the Campbells drink. Where they discuss business. Where they order from. Through the hatch door Serena orders rum.

“White or dark?” Bernie asks.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, and a whiskey.”

Bernie dutifully goes to get the drinks. The bartender whispers in her ear that it’s on the house. Bernie thought that was obvious, but doesn’t say. She sets the bottle of rum and a glass of whiskey on the counter between her and Serena.

“Strong and hot is all I care for on a day like today,” Serena says, lifting the glass to her mouth.

 Bernie takes the opportunity to study the woman. Her rouged lips. Her fine eyelashes. Her strong eyebrows.

Serena’s hair curls at her just below her chin, dark brown and immaculately styled. Bernie knows many women with shorter hair now, after the war. She’s kept hers long. It’s reaches mid-way down her back, although you can’t tell. She winds it up in the day. Barely brushes it, if she’s honest. Just wakes up and pins it up. Out the way. Knots and all. When she lets it down, just before bed, it’s unruly. Curls sticking everywhere. She should sort it out. Cut it. Neaten it up. But she can’t seem to find the effort. Goodness knows, though, how much effort it takes to wash. How long it takes to dry. It would be easier for her to have most of it lopped off, she knows. But truth is, she’s too scared to have a bob. It wouldn’t suit her. It would look ridiculous on a woman her age.

But it doesn’t look ridiculous on Serena. It suits her. Her clothes – Bernie remembers their first meeting over a broken car – aren’t, like her hair, in the newest style. The one all the young girls seem to wear now. The shapeless, loose-fitting dresses that reach to just above the ankles. Serena wears a shirt, long skirt and jacket. Like Bernie. But where Bernie’s is green and plain, Serena’s is black. A belt clinches her waist, creating the womanly silhouette that has been popular for the past decades. One never Bernie could achieve with her long limbs and boyish frame.

One that Serena is now scrutinising, as Bernie is her. She never takes her eyes off Bernie. Bernie knows the other woman is trying to square her up. Work her out. Bernie's doing the same. She wonders where the blood on Serena’s collar is from. Who the rum is for. She wonders what _a day like today_ is. She asks. Serena pauses sets the whiskey glass on the table. Arches an eyebrow. In one simple, wordless gesture she asks what _fucking_ business it is of Bernie’s. And answers her own silent question by closing the doors of the hatch shut. _It’s not._

The bartender tells Bernie that if anyone orders from there again, she should say nothing to who she is serving. He also says, in a tone of resignation, that if anyone behind that hatch door asks her to do something, she should without question. Just the way things are, he says. He’s trying to look out for her. Teach her the ropes.

But the game Bernie’s playing, the real work she’s undertaking, she learnt the ropes of long ago.

-

When the door hatch opens the next day, the bartender gets their first. But Bernie moves in closer to overhear the conversation. It’s not Serena this time. It’s a man. Beaten within an inch of hell by the looks of it. He sports a magnificent black eye. Has bruises and cuts all over his face. A broken nose. One that’s been broken more than once. When he sets his hand on the table, it is swollen and bruised. Two fingers are splintered. Bernie figures he is the man who the police took in for questioning yesterday. The man they wanted information from. He’s Serena’s husband. And the injured patient she took the rum for.

He asks for whiskey to take with him. A bottle, not a glass. The bartender sets a pint of ale down instead. Pouring drinks, Bernie flits glances over to the man. His face scrunches up. He spits into the drink. Knocks it over with his good hand. Bernie is ready for his fist to strike again. At the bartender. But it doesn’t.

“Can’t a man get the drink he wants in his own _fucking_ pub?”

His anger, Bernie curiously notes, isn’t at the bartender though.

“Mrs Campbell – “ The bartender begins.

“Mrs fucking Campbell isn’t here. She doesn’t need to know. Now give me the whiskey.”

The bartender shakes his head. As if to say he’s sorry, but he can’t.

“You,” the man orders. Jabs a finger at Bernie.

“Yes?” Bernie turns to him.

“Fetch me some god damn whiskey.”

“I – “ Bernie is cut off.

“I rather think that’s enough for today, don’t you?” Serena’s voice, sharp as ice, pierces the air. Bernie can’t see here. She’s in the room behind the door hatch. Obscured by Edward.

“Enough? I haven’t even had one drop woman.”

“If you want to drink, go and do it somewhere else."

Edward slams the hatch doors shut. But Bernie hears his yell of “maybe I fucking will”.

Afterwards, when they are closing for the night Bernie manages to wheedle the story out of the bartender. Or rather, the story of the arrangement. Of how Edward Campbell, patriarch of one of the most notorious gangster families, does not get served what he wants at the family pub. The answer is simple. It’s not his pub at all. Not really. It’s Serena who runs all the family business. And she has ordered that he not be served liquor. That he not be served nothing more than pitiful watered-down ale. And not much of that either.

The bartender tells her that the way thing stand. That’s the rule they abide by. One of the bar staff used to pass him the whiskey anyway. Made a fair few bob out of it. More than a fair few. But Serena found out. And she dismissed the barman. He’s never been seen in the city again. His family moved out of their house the next day. The bartender doesn’t say anymore. He’s said enough. Too much. Bernie doesn’t want to press. Ask more questions. So, she reads between the lines instead. Edward is a drunk. It’s not like everyone else here in this city isn't. It's just Serena doesn’t like it. So she put an end to his drinking. At least in her pub. And the bartender complies. Refuses Edward point-blank. Despite the fury it will cause.

Criminals operate by fear. They thrive on it. And in this city, there are a lot of criminals and a lot of people to fear. Working out who you fear more, whose orders to follow – in the case of the bartender, Serena’s instead of Edward’s – is crucial for getting by in this city. For staying alive.

-

On her afternoon off, Bernie goes to an art museum. Pretends to observe the marble busts. Instead whispers to a man in a suit. The Chief Inspector who has been drafted in to help clean up the streets of the city. He sorted the IRA out in Belfast, now he wants to sort out the troublemakers here. The would-be revolutionists. The communists. The gangsters.He’s been recruiting Protestant Irishmen to help. He recruited Bernie.

“Are you in position?” Chief Inspector Dunn asks.

Bernie says she is. Asks if he’s found anything out that might help her.

“We interrogated the head of the Campbells. He didn’t’ know anything.”

“It strikes me that it isn’t Edward who’s the head of the family. It’s his wife.”

“The police had a man. A DI that was meant to do a similar job to yours. Get close. Find information.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. The Campbell’s have had the local police on their payroll for years now.”

“And the DI? What happened with him?”

“I’ve heard . . . that he’s her lover now.”

“Really?”

“It’s a disgrace to my profession, I know. It’s a disgrace to his country. The Campbells have had the whole of the city under their thumb for far too long. It’s time for that to change.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Sir.”

“I have to admit, I was weary of working with you. With a woman. But your father – God rest his soul – was a good man. He always spoke so highly of you. I trust you will honour his memory and serve the state just as well as he did.”

“I will certainly try.”

-

The police raid the streets. They barge into the houses. They tear them up. They drag men outside onto the streets. They root out the communists one by one. Beat them. Interrogate them. It’s chaos. And there is no one to stop them. The Campbell men – that is the men that fight, with bare fists and red eyes and razor blades sewn in their caps – are out. Gone to the fayre. The police wouldn’t dare smash up the streets if they weren’t.

Bernie overheard talk of the outing. She told the police it was today. She’s proved herself as a reliable and valuable source. A capable woman. When the raid happens, she is in the room she rents. Her new home. Tiny and dull and bare – apart from a table, chairs, a table, a bed and what little belongings she owns. Bernie watches the chaos through her window. She peers through the netted curtains. She hears the shouts and screams.

She wonders where Serena Campbell is. Wonder if she's with that DI. The one she took for a lover.

-

Bernie doesn’t find where she was, but she finds out that the Campbells have brought a horse. That, in the past weeks, they’ve had crowds of people from all over the city betting on their horse. That it kept winning. Until it didn’t. And the losses were tremendous. And so were the takings for the Campbells. Bernie is taking out a bucket of dirty water when she spots Serena walking through the streets. Bernie tosses the water out, without hesitation, on the floor. It splashes the cobbles – and is barely an inch from splashing the other woman. Bernie mumbles an apology.

“What’s a woman like you doing in a place like this?”

Bernie knows it isn’t a question and so she doesn’t answer.

“I suppose I’ll let you stay if – I mean, this is my pub and I haven’t approved your hiring. And I have the final word on everything. But . . . you can stay.”

Bernie knows it’s not that simple. “On what terms?”

“Miss Wolfe,” Serena smiles. “How would you like to go to the races with me?”

-

Bernie accepts of course. A day spent in the company of Serena Campbell. Goodness knows what she could uncover. With careful study and a lot of listening in to business that isn’t hers.

Serena tells her to a buy a suit. An expensive one.

Bernie starts to figure out how this is going to work.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to hold my hands up here and say that for now Last Tango in Holby is my priority and, whilst I love Peaky Blinders and a good ol' lesbian gangster AU as anyone, this probably won't get updated for a while. But I did want to test the waters and see if people are interested.


End file.
